


Crisis

by amireal



Series: Crisis [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Depression, Everyone writes one of these at some point, Gen, M/M, frank look inside the head of a major depressive episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:26:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson, instead of asking, just pads quietly to his kitchen in his pajama pants and sweat shirt and fills a kettle with water and flips it on with practiced ease. He gets out two mugs and four packets of cocoa mix.</p><p>Or</p><p>How do you ask for help when you don't know how?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> This one sort of sat up and demanded to be written? I absolutely cannot let myself write this in anything but a series of shorts, it'd be too triggering, but I will say that there's a lot to explore in this universe so I'll probably revisit it. Right now it's labeled as just friendship, but it would end up as Clint/Coulson eventually. So it's technically pre-slash. See the end notes for possible trigger warning content.

Clint feels dumb as soon as he finishes pressing the doorbell, but he can’t make himself turn around and leave either. Coulson looks sleep ruffled and vaguely annoyed when the door opens and Clint blurts out an automatic apology.

That stops Coulson cold and he takes a long look at Clint. Then a second look. By the time he meets Clint’s eyes again, he’s stepping back and making room for Clint to scoot past him and into the apartment. Clint’s relief is palpable, he’s not sure he can do the subway ride back yet.

Coulson, instead of asking, just pads quietly to his kitchen in his pajama pants and sweat shirt, fills a kettle with water and flips it on with practiced ease. He gets out two mugs and four packets of cocoa mix. While he waits for the water to boil he returns to Clint and tugs gently on his jacket which Clint belatedly realizes he’s still wearing. God he’s tired. So tired. Coulson just helps him take it off and then taps his sock clad feet on Clint’s boots. He blinks and stares for a long second before he realizes he’s meant to take them off. So he does.

He’s then led to the couch where Coulson gently pushes down on his shoulders until Clint folds as gracelessly as he’s ever been into the corner. Coulson grabs a nearby throw and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s so soft and Clint loses time feeling it, with his fingers, his cheek, his nose. The softness is the first truly interesting thing he’s found in a long time. That’s enough to make him feel less bad about coming here late at night, without an invitation.

Eventually Coulson pads back into his range of vision, which at this point is mostly that square of carpet next to the coffee table. A delicious smelling cup is pressed into his hand and his first attempt to hold it is an abysmal failure, but Coulson seems to understand the danger because his hand hasn’t wavered. Clint tries again, with both hands, it works this time and Coulson’s fingers slide easily out from under his.

The couch shifts minutely and Clint realizes Coulson has sat down next to him, his own cup cradled in his hands. He curls up in a bookend mirror of Clint and waits silently and patiently. It’s the least pressure Clint has ever felt from another person who is obviously waiting for him to speak. Even from Coulson.

Clint spends time sipping his cocoa and letting himself enjoy the drink, it takes a while to remember how. Food is mostly a nuisance these days, a requirement of living that sometimes takes too much energy. He’s made it this long because SHIELD’s commissary is open 22 hours a day and his bow is the only thing that gives him comfort and that uses up enough calories to make him eat.

It’s easy to zone out inside his own head for the length of time it takes to finish his mug but when it’s empty he realizes he no longer has something to do and he still has no idea what to say.

The problem is he doesn't know how to ask for help. He's never had someone who would help if he even tried, until now. And now the words are gone, he doesn't even know how to describe what's wrong. He doesn't _know_ what's wrong. Just that there _is_ something wrong. Because his normal can’t be right anymore. 

Maybe years ago, when he could step into the center ring and drown it out with the endorphins of performance he could pretend his normal was okay and when it wasn’t a show night it was only a little hard to distract himself out of it easily enough. Even 2 years ago when SHIELD is new enough that every day is interesting and he can still hope that he will find a purpose, finally, he finds the creeping emotional black hole from his mercenary days is easily left behind. But these days there’s no distraction large enough and his days are just a relentless movement of time onward and nothing ever gets better.

The thoughts are familiar enough, he has them every night as tries to settle down to sleep. That’s probably why his eyes are already watering, his body has been primed already, twice even, because he only came here after he spent a few fruitless hours in his dark bedroom trying for some relief. He puts the cup down, it rattles against the battered wood, no not rattles, shakes in his hand.

He looks up to find Coulson’s cup already put aside and genuinely worried eyes assessing him. Maybe that’s what he can do, he can show Coulson that something is wrong, he already knows, Clint’s barely holding it together, he spends all of his time holding it together so that when the day fades into night he’s got nothing left. He tries to let it go, to stop holding back but there’s a person with him in the room and it’s hard to work past that, he’s so used to breaking apart alone.

Eventually, Coulson reaches out, it’s nothing, just a hand on his arm, a gesture, a touch of another person. That’s what does it and suddenly big fat tears spill over and his chest compresses and wheezes. Once it’s out there, once he’s shown Coulson how bad it is, the next step seems logical, explain to him in actions exactly what’s wrong. So Clint does the one thing that he suddenly wants more than anything in the world. He fumbles across the empty space on the couch and curls up in Coulson’s lap, head on his shoulder, hands clutching tightly around a sweat shirt covered chest and he starts to cry himself to sleep.

Coulson is shocked, he can feel it under his damp face, but he relaxes quickly, curling uncertain arms around Clint and holding him gently, so gently, it makes the sobbing worse for a minute but eventually Coulson’s gentle shushing and careful stroking calm him down enough to yawn and then drop off.

It’s the best sleep outside of a drugged medical sleep he’s had in months. He feels lighter even as he sobs, because now someone knows, someone really knows and maybe he won’t have to figure out what to do next, maybe Coulson can tell him, or just maybe make suggestions. Clint would love suggestions.

He wakes up a little to vibrations of his pillow, Coulson’s hand is still rubbing soothing circles on his back, or maybe it’s again, because it’s light out and Clint doesn’t remember the in between time.

“We’re both off the roster Director,” Coulson says quietly and Clint realizes he’s on the phone, “I’m not kidding. Suspend me if you have to, I’m not coming in.” There’s a pause and then Coulson sighs. “We fucked up. I fucked up.” He’s cursing and for a second Clint worries Coulson’s angry at him. He must make a noise or something because the absent rubbing halts abruptly only to resume more firmly. “Give me 5 days and put him on 3 months mandatory with an option for 3 more,” Coulson says quietly but with a level of force Clint would never have associated with that low a decibel level.

There’s a long pause and Clint would think Coulson’s hung up but there’s been no other sign of it. He’s proven right when Coulson’s chest expands under him once more. “Nick,” is all he says, “don’t make me quit.” 

That tone scares Clint a little so when Coulson finally hangs up he looks down only to see Clint’s puffy and swollen eyes looking right back up at him. Clint opens his mouth to say something, though he doesn’t know what, only to be interrupted by a huge yawn.

“Are you still tired?” Coulson asks, still so quiet.

Clint blinks blearily and nods.

“Then go back to sleep,” Coulson pulls him closer and tucks Clint’s head under his chin, one hand scratching carefully through his short hair.

Clint lets the hypnotic feeling of Coulson’s blunt fingers lull him back to sleep.

When he wakes up again he knows a few more hours have gone by based on the angle of the slant in the sunbeam on the floor. The television is on, but muted, the closed captioning enabled so that Coulson can follow along without the sound. Clint feels so rested it’s confusing at first, but he tucks that feeling away to contemplate later.

“Feeling better?” Coulson asks, his voice so gentle that it both enhances and sooths the ache inside of Clint.

Clint, still afraid of words, just nods.

“I have to ask you a question, just one and then we can do this at whatever pace you can handle,” Coulson tells him and then pauses, waiting for some response from Clint.

“Kay,” is about all he can squeeze out.

Coulson doesn’t ask right away, his hesitation is brief but palpable. “Do you feel,” Coulson pauses again and the deep breath he takes actually lifts Clint’s head up a few inches before going back down, “there’s no wrong answer for this one Clint,” he pauses again and Clint nods his head against Coulson’s chest. “Do you feel like you are a danger to yourself or others?”

Clint gives the question the serious consideration it deserves, even muzzy headed with sleep and tears he knows it’s an important question. “Not actively,” he eventually says, “I’m just so tired.”

“Okay Clint,” Coulson’s body goes a little pliant with relief, “that’s fine. You want to sleep more?”

Clint is undecided, the pull of sleep is strong, but he’s already logged so many good hours, six if the clock he squints at is right, he’s afraid to break the streak, on the other hand he doesn’t really want to move either.

“Sleep is fine,” Coulson eventually tells him, “I can turn the volume on, let you zone on it for a bit.”

“Okay,” Clint forces out, “that’s good.” Talking is hard because he’s still curled around Coulson and it’s the safest he’s felt in a long time but it also feels so precious and fragile and he can’t stand the idea of it ending. 

Coulson flips to an old sitcom and turns off mute. The volume is still low enough that Clint can tune it out and fall asleep if he wants. Then he taps Clint on the shoulder, just a gentle request for attention. “I called in a favor,” he tells Clint, “a friend of mine is coming over later so you can talk. Or not talk. But I hope you’ll answer his questions. I want to begin getting you better and I won’t sleep well until I know we’ve started.”

“Therapy?” Clint asks confused.

“No,” Coulson says, “that’s for later, if you want it, my friend is a psycho-pharmacologist, basically he talks to you for about an hour and matches you up with the medication best suited for your brain. He’s really good at it,” Coulson’s hand is still moving in soothing circles and it’s about the only thing keeping him relaxed. “There’s nothing wrong with needing a little help evening out your brain chemistry.”

It sounds so reasonable when Coulson says it.

“And you’ll be here? After?” Clint asks, it’s hard to focus or he’d realize he’s asking Coulson about staying in his own apartment.

“You don’t even have to ask,” Coulson whispers, “you _never_ have to ask.”

Coulson’s favor arrives sometime later, Clint isn’t making an effort to keep track of time. Instead he lets it pass in increments of old sitcoms until the doorbell rings. Clint finds himself shifted around until Coulson can slip out from beneath him. Coulson staggers a little on the way up and then limps to the door opening it after a brief look through the peephole. There’s quiet murmuring and then Coulson sits back down, this time finding room in the hollow Clint’s hips make in the center of the cushions.

“Clint, this is Stanley,” Coulson says, gently putting a hand on his shoulder, “is it okay if I run some errands while you talk?”

Clint nods, because if Coulson is doing something, that’s good and it’s easy to let Coulson do things, Coulson being in charge is always a good thing. He gets a squeeze of Coulson’s hand before he stands back up. Stanley waits patiently for Coulson to change and slip on shoes and grab whatever he needs to for his errands and then slip out the door before sitting down on the coffee table in front of Clint.

Stanley looks like he’s Coulson’s age, only his hair is already white and he’s got a neatly trimmed professorial beard. His glasses perch on his nose and are strong enough to enhance the wrinkles around his eyes. He’s dressed casually in jeans and loafers but his cardigan has an air of ‘in the office about it’. He slowly leads Clint through the night before, what he was feeling, why he was feeling it, “I don’t know,” is all Clint can get out sometimes but Stanley doesn’t seem to mind, he just nods carefully and moves on. He asks Clint specifically about his sleeping habits and Clint admits that crying has become his go to move, he can always sleep after he squeezes out a few tears.

“Some of that’s the emotional release,” Stanley tells him, “it might be the only time you’re getting any, also tears make your eyelids swell just enough to trick your brain into thinking it should be asleep. When your eyelids are swollen they don’t open all the way and that sends signals to your brain that maybe they should be closed.”

“Oh,” Clint says, actually vaguely interested. It’s sort of a relief to have even that simple an explanation for what his body is doing.

The questions continue and sometimes Clint can maybe figure out why they’re being asked and sometimes they seem random and completely unrelated. Before they get to work questions Stanley assures him of his security clearance and Clint believes him mostly because Coulson trusts the guy alone in his apartment, with Clint. So Clint talks about work, about his bow, about how he’s been making himself get through the day. Eventually Stanley nods and tells him that he’s got enough to call in something for him, but he’d like to continue talking after.

Clint nods, worried that if he stops, he might not be able to start again, so he’d best take advantage of it while he can. When Stanley comes back the talking resumes, Clint still doesn’t say much, but he makes himself say some. It’s easier when Stanley leads them away from serious topics and into things that Clint can still find some joy in, even if there’s not much of it at the moment.

When Coulson returns he’s carrying a Clint’s worn duffel in one hand and several plastic bags in the other. He and Stanley talk quietly again before returning to Clint with a pill bottle and a glass of water.

“Okay Clint,” Stanley says offering him the glass and a pill, Clint has wormed his way a little more upright while Coulson was gone so the glass doesn’t spill and the pill goes down easily. “I’ve written you a prescription for Celexa, it’s what I like to call baby’s first antidepressant, it tends to work on most people at least well enough that you can start thinking about the next steps. If we’re lucky, this is all you’ll need to get back on track, but when I talk to you in 4 weeks you shouldn’t feel bad if it’s not enough. Okay?”

Clint nods and is surprised to feel just a tiny spark of excitement at the idea of even feeling a little better.

“Good,” Stanley nods, “now, I know you’re having trouble keeping up your calorie intake and now that Phil has taken you off active duty and we’ve got you on the Celexa that’s going to get harder.” Stanley explains to Clint patiently the most likely side effects of the drug and how Phil, and wow is _that_ weird to hear, will have a timer and a schedule and will put small amounts of food in front of him at regular intervals.

“The calories are more important than the content right now,” Stanley tells him, “if you find something easier to eat than others, tell Phil, okay?”

“Kay,” Clint agrees, it’s becoming easier to agree to things outside of his own control. Maybe that’s the point.

Stanley and Coulson move off to the side and eventually Clint hears the door open and close again. Coulson takes his time coming back to Clint, but when he does it’s with a plate full of food. It’s just pasta but when Clint focuses on it he can see that it’s his favorite pasta, the elbow noodles, prepared in his favorite way, baked. He smiles at it and then at Coulson who looks startled and then genuinely relieved. “Thank you,” Coulson blurts out.

Clint blinks in confusion, he’s the one getting the free food. 

“Thank you,” Coulson says again, “for coming to me.”

Oh, Clint realizes, Coulson is glad Clint knocked on his door at 3 in the morning. That’s— weird and hard to digest, but he lets it go for now because Coulson really does look grateful. Instead he shovels the warm and satisfying plate of carbs into his mouth and next to him Coulson grabs his own plate and settles back into the couch, now on the opposite side of where he was last night. Clint feels like he has choices now and it’s weird because if he thinks it through, these same choices have always been there, he just couldn’t see them, maybe it’s because he couldn’t get any distance, he always sees better from a distance.

The television is off, Stanley must have done that at some point, but the remote is sitting on the empty cushion between them. Clint takes it and aims it at the dark screen. When his fingers hit the power button, it’s his decision, his first one without prompting in a very long time and even as he flips the channels to find something they both can watch, it feels like a new day and for once Clint thinks he can greet it with open arms.

**Author's Note:**

> There is no suicidal ideation, however Coulson is trained to ask the responsible questions given the right situations, so there's a brief discussion of it, just to clear it off the table. That being said, it's a pretty frank look at how major depressive disorder looks from the inside.


End file.
